Till that glad night when all that hate may hiss.
"This day the powder'd curls and golden coat,"
Says swelling Crispin, "begged a cobbler's vote!"
"This night our wit" the pert apprentice cries,
"Lies at my feet: I hiss him, and he dies!"
The great, 'tis true, can charm th'electing tribe;
The bard may supplicate, but cannot bribe.
Yet, judg'd by those whose voices ne'er were sold
He feels no want of ill-persuading gold;
But, confident of praise, if praise be due,